Our Death's Eve
by Gingerfrenchie
Summary: While Westeros is preparing to fight the army of the dead, Arya watches her sister train, and gets into a little arrangement.
1. Chapter 1

"Urgh", Sansa groaned again after missing the aim, and Arya couldn't restrain her smile.

As children, the younger one had been the one who was being punished by Old Nan because her writing wasn't pretty enough, or her stitches were crooked, or because her dresses were always covered in mud. Now it was Sansa, her perfect sister with shiny hair and porcelain skin and fine features who was struggling, and taking extra time to do what was demanded of her by their King. Jon had been true to his word. Every boy and every maiden, every man and every woman from the age of ten to sixty was training to fight the upcoming war, and that included noblemen and noblewomen as well. Particularly noblemen and noblewomen, actually, for they were expected to lead their armies and show them what was right.

The leather armour she was wearing quite suited her actually. The way she held the bow was funny, but she looked a thousand times fiercer than when she was wearing a gown.

Another arrow went flying through the cold air with a slow _fuuush_, and ended well below the bull's eye, almost in the dirt.

"It's more difficult than it looks", said Arya, her voice rusty from the freezing air, but her tone a bit amused.

Sansa noticed her little sister observing her, and repressed an ashamed smile. "I've been hiding for a reason", she said, her eyes drifting around them. True, that the Godswood was no regular place to train in, but seeing the inconsequential number of arrows her sister had achieved to shoot in the straw aim, her urges for intimacy were understandable.

"Why is this so difficult? Children with half my years shoot in the bull's eye just fine."

"Flex your arm. Yes, like that", Arya pointed out. "And don't hold for too long before shooting, you'll only tire yourself. Aim and shoot."

Sansa sighed and tried again, and the arrow landed only a few feet away from them.

"There's no way I'll be able to defend anyone during that war."

"Be patient. That's what Old Nan used to tell me when I moaned about my ugly embroidery." Arya brushed some snow off a stone and sat near her sister.

"Well, luckily we don't repel White Walkers with embroidered tapestries and dresses, because I fear you never got really good." Sansa laughed, and Arya joined her. "We all have our strength and weaknesses, I guess." She shot another arrow, which pierced the aim quite fast and almost in the middle. "Hey, your tip worked!"

Arya smiled at her childish shriek, and squeezed her knees together for warmth. She had spent the day training young girls and boys from the castle, with as much skills as Sansa but without nearly as much persistence. Sansa went to fetch her arrows, refilled her stack and came back, before easing the collar of the leather coat she was wearing.

"I need a break", she said, before putting down her bow and collapsing near her little sister. She wore her hair in a long and tight braid, and some auburn strands stuck to her lovely face slick with sweat. "How's your friend going?"

"Gendry? He's been forging Valyrian Steel since he arrived I believe. The sound of that hammer on the anvil all day long is haunting me even through the night." Sansa loved to small talk. Arya had gotten used to it since her return, though it had never felt natural to her. But sometimes she yielded to her sister's gushing nature.

"No, not that one. The one from Essos who arrived a few days ago. How are he and his men adapting to the cold?"

"Oh, Jaqen…" _Friend_ was a weird word to associate with Jaqen. He had been her killer, her teacher, but a friend… friend did not really roll off her tongue easily.

"I guess they're doing good with the cold. No one hasn't really complained about it, though they don't really complain about anything. They're here out of duty towards their Death God I think. Surely they don't like the idea of the dead coming back. I haven't been talking to them much though."

"I've noticed that." Sansa arranged her pelts, and detached the belts that held the armour, which Arya guessed she was not really comfortable in. When she turned her back towards her little sister, Arya undid the remaining belts, and a big sigh of relief escaped Sansa's mouth when she was finally rid of the garment. "Did something happen in Essos? You're strange when he's around, stranger than usual."

"Well… I held my Needle to his heart and basically spat at everything he had just taught me, so maybe that explains the strangeness." Arya giggled quietly, remembering the scene. How she had been ready to do some _embroidery _on him, after taking care of that freaking Waif. She had been ready to show him what it meant to hit Arya Stark with a stick and send a murdering psycho after her. But when the time came to pierce through his flesh, her arm had become weak and her willpower dissolving into the air. Luckily she had been strong enough to utter the words she had been preparing.

"At first I thought he'd come back to make me pay for leaving the Faceless Men's guild," she resumed. "But we had a little talk about that and he said that game was over."

"And that was before or after you started eyeing him all day long?" She was leaning on the rock, her chest still heaving high and low from the recent exercise. Her pretty cheeks were pink with the blood rushing through her, and now she adorned a sneaky smile.

"What?", Arya asked, cutting away the emotion. That skill, she had kept from her training as a Faceless Man.

"Come on, don't be silly. There no time for it. We're off to fight an army of dead corpses, I remind you. You may be strange, but that kind of strangeness, I know quite well. You've been fidgeting with your fingers and toying with the laces of your coat when he's around. Once I even noticed you blush."

"It's the cold.", Arya responded, pushing away the other thoughts.

"Hmm… ", Sansa purred, dubious. She pushed herself up, and gathered her bow again. She picked up an arrow, and examined the sculpted feathers on the tip.

"If sometime you need someone to keep you warm at night, I can give you some tips on how to proceed, if in exchange you help me train with the bow. My experience with men is not very glorious, but I still manage to make Sandor happy." She rose her prettily defined brows, and arranged her gloves.

"I don't care what you and the Hound do", Arya groaned, her face still locked.

"As you wish." Sansa shrugged, and readied herself to shoot again. Arya sighed, before chewing on her lower lip. She took a breath in and pondered, for a short second, then stood next to her sister.

"Alright, imagine there's a line between you and the aim. Your body has to be perpendicular to that line. Then stand upright and aim", she said, before hearing Sansa chuckle.

* * *

A knock on his door. These were unusual since he had arrived in the North. Before opening he tried to scout outer noises and guess who it might be. When he noticed nothing but the far barks of the hounds in the kennels, his thoughts settled on his faceless brother. He opened the door quietly, and-

"Lovely girl?", slipped out of his mouth. He cursed himself the next second. He had not meant to call her that. This name belonged to another place, and another time, before Braavos and before she hated him. He did not wish to tarnish those memories.

She entered without granting him a look, but the light blush on her snowy skin did not go unnoticed. She was wearing a loose shirt and a pair of breeches too wide for her legs, and boots barely laced up. And she was not wearing any weapon, neither her little needle nor her pretty dagger. _She did not go out of her chambers like this, did she?_

"It's been a while since you didn't call me that." He didn't answer. What did she mean? Why was she here? "I think I missed it."

He didn't answer either. He inclined his head, and looked at her, gazing his room. Her back was towards him, and with the light of the fire he could almost guess her form beneath that shirt. He walked over, in front of her, and forced their faces to meet. Hers was like a puzzle, though he had been quite good in the past at guessing what she thought. But now she was a riddle, and somewhere on the smile she willed a little too casual, he could almost read that even she didn't have the answer yet to her own confusions.

"What does a girl want?", he asked, and only after did he realize he had made his tone deeper. Why was that? The fire cracked, and he wanted his thoughts to cease questioning his doings. Weird, for he had done so for so many years.

"You.", she said, finally her eyes meeting his. The blood rushed through him, making his head feel lighter. Was she certain of what she was saying?

"This man is yours, sword and devotion." He thought he'd tease her a bit, just to make sure she was not playing the cruel game with him. Although Arya Stark had never been a real player. She liked to skip straight to the point and do her deed.

"And how… devoted are you?", she said, and he noticed her voice was lower than usual. She took a step towards him, and made her hips swing swing like a cat's. _She's playing_, a voice in him murmured. _Good_, he thought, for she must know the kind of deed she was demanding right now required some playing to be enjoyable. And that gleam in her grey eyes indicated him that she wanted every bit of it to be enjoyable. But what game was she playing? The teasing one or the cruel one?

She stepped closer, and he could feel the warmth of her small body from this close. The top of her head barely reached his shoulders, and she was craning her neck to look a him. He kept looking at her face, pondering if her should stop her or not. A curious hand reached for his waist and settled there, and her eyes grew rounder.

"As devoted as you need this man to be.", he said, tracing the side of her jaw. He made his touch light on purpose, and he could read the satisfaction in the way she moved forward for more. "But he thought a girl hated him." He did not mean to kill the mood, but he wanted this problem settled, before they moved to a more intimate kind of devotion. He did not want to be only a pretty face to her, because she was not to him.

"I did. For a while, for all the time we spent in Braavos, the only thing I wanted to see was you face hanging on these walls. But then I could not find the strength to kill you, and after… I realized I was here, home and safe, thanks to you." She took her hand away from his waist, and only then did he realize he had already grown accustomed to it, and now it felt like it was missing. "And then you came to Winterfell. It's weird seeing you in these walls, it's like… I'm seeing you for the first time."

His lips curled up into a smirk, a proud one, like he did not wear often.

"A man did not mean to hurt a girl, this whole time she hated him." This was partly true. All the wounds he inflicted her he knew she could heal, and learn from.

"I know.", she answered, sure, and he did not detect any lie. He smiled. _She grew_. "But admit it, you could have been a little gentler," she continued with an amused smile.

"Yes." He chuckled. "I could have. But a man will repay himself, and be gentle now," he said when he felt her approach closer.

"Don't be.", she said. This one he knew came without thinking. He watched her cheeks redden and her eyes get lost. "I mean, don't be too gentle… I mean- no, I don't know, be like you-… but," she tried to explain herself, and he grinned at her nervousness. He kissed her on the lips to cut her tense babble. She was clearly surprised, but after a few seconds she relaxed into the kiss, and her lips were softer. She steadied herself with both her hands on his waist, and he realized she was pushing herself on the tips of her toes to make it more comfortable to him. He broke their kiss, and scooped her up a wooden commode that was here. His act planted a foolish smile on the lips he had just kissed, and which he wanted to taste again already.

He planted a little, feathery peck on that cute smile, and then ran the tip of his nose on her cheekbone, letting her enjoy his hot breath all the way to her ear. "Worry not, lovely girl. This man will take good care of you." With that she bit her lip, and his only goal for the night was now to outdo the images she had just made up in her head and that made her blush so.

She sneaked her hands under his shirt. He had been touched by women before, but her fingers on his abs felt like a totally new feeling. His lips ventured to tease her neck and that tiny bit of shoulder her loose shirt allowed him to see. He planted a few kisses here and there, and nibbled that warm spot bellow her ear where her skin was softer. The little chaps on his lips due to the cold of these lands prickled her, and she shivered in his arms.

Her hands ventured higher to caress his chest and ghost around his nipples, which he suspected she didn't dare yet to properly touch. He kissed her on the lips again, and closed his eyes to enjoy more of that oddly satisfying feeling. He did not remember that kissing was so full and enjoyable, but the sensation he liked the best was the one of having her so close to him, in his arms, and all to him just for that night. She sighed against him, and he felt her mouth open tentatively against his. He felt the wet tip of her tongue against his lower lips, shy and scared at first. He opened for her, and she was brave enough to go to the end of her experiment. Her tongue slid against his, and he helped it dance the right way. She moaned quietly, and he felt like a green boy again when he could not repress the fuzziness in his stomach. They parted for air, and he observed with delight her glistening lips. He let her remove his shirt, and they chuckled when she couldn't ease it above his raised arms despite being sat on the piece of furniture. He tossed the useless piece of fabric away, and decided it was his turn to venture on her skin.

His fingers played on the bare skin of her waist first, to see how she reacted. Then he moved an inch higher, his fingers like a curious little insect gaining territory, until his palm cupped her left breast and his thumb toyed with her nipple. It hardened at his touch, and he noticed her holding her breath. She circled her arms around his shoulder and pushed her chest toward him, before stealing his lips. His hand went to her back, the other held her thigh, and he lifted her and laid her on the bed. It had been freshly made, smelled of sweet and fruity soap still, and only waited for them to crumple it's perfect set of lined sheets. For a flicker of a second he asked himself if a drop of her blood would drip on those perfect sheets when he would enter her for the first time, and the thought made his manhood grow. She was a maiden, he knew, and he marvelled at the idea that she had come to him to experience the first taste of womanhood, though he found her choice very senseless. She was a sweet, sweet thing for him to have, so sweet he wondered if he deserved even half of a tenth of her attention. But she had more courage than sense, that, he knew too.

He opened the strings of that indecently oversized shirt of hers, and explored her with his lips and tongue. A giggle escaped her when he nibbled at her nipple, and then swirled his tongue around it until it was pleasantly soft and wet. He enjoyed to feel that little tip in his mouth, and he particularly loved how she wiggled when he played with it. Her wide pants, he removed next, and left her in a pair of cotton underclothes.

She moved and settled on her knees, directing him with no words to do the same. A playful smile was on her lips. _She has an idea_, he thought, amused. She pulled on the string that held his pants, and he watched her slow down when she faced the bulge in his own cotton underclothes. _Is she nervous? _Some of her willpower must have drifted away, for she brought her eyes back to his and kissed him again. She nestled her head near his throat and her little kisses there tickled him. One more adventurous hand had regained it's braveness and hovered near his concealed hardness. She touched him very softly, as if she feared to hurt him. He twitched lightly under her timid fingers, and she removed them as if she had burned herself.

"I'm sorry," she blurted.

"A girl did no harm", he said taking her hand, and making her squeeze him until a grunt escaped his throat. She smiled, and his hand went down her back, to travel near the hem of what was hiding the last bit of her. She kept touching him, until she grew too curious to see what made him react so. She pulled down the fabric hiding him, and his penis stood upright, hungry and ready. He examined her reaction, but with her head crooked like that it was hard to see her features. She ran a finger along the length of him, circled his pink tip. Then she leaned downward, and before he had the time to ask himself if she knew what she was doing, that pink tip was discovering the hotness of her mouth. An uncontrolled sigh flew out of his nose, and he watched her head move down and down, until she could not take any more in. His fingers wrapped in her brown hair, and quickly she understood the rhythm that satisfied him. Quicker than he had expected, he started to feel the blood rush through him, and closed his eyes to enjoy the feeling. A shaky sigh escaped him when he reached the peak she allowed him, and she kept working him with her surprisingly knowing hand while sucking off his juice. She licked her lips clean when she was done, and he took her head and plunged forward to taste himself. He knew he was minty and kind of bitter, but in her mouth he liked it.

He had not finished his savoury experiments when he became hard again against her thigh.

She laid down, an excited smile ruling her face. She opened her arms for him to come near her, which he did not wait two seconds to do. He removed the last bit of fabric that hid her from him, planted a small kiss on the joint of her hip before coming back up to face her. He positioned himself above her, parted her legs, took himself in hand and ran his tip along her opening, slick with a hot wetness. He breathed in before entering, a naive part of him awakening to wonder at the sight of her spread out under him, just for him.

If it was painful her face betrayed no sign of it. He went in slow and deep, until all of his manhood was coated with warmth and that lovely compression of her inner walls. He watched her handle the new feelings, and waited for her to relax before moving again. He rocked and bounced, in and out until she was losing her breath. When her knee started to tremble he kissed her on the lips once more, and a senseless fear caught his guts that she might just leave him once he had made lights explode in her head. But when her gleaming gaze crossed his, thick with desire and that special spice he did not dare to name love, he told himself that he was a fool to think she would go anywhere without him. His hands glided against her body while she was climbing the steps towards that voluptuous bliss, and when she threw her head back and pulsed down there, he felt like the happiest man in the world. He had taught her how to be strong, but the distress he now read on her face made him prouder.

He went on, feeling the climax build within himself as well. She felt him squeeze around him, and her short nails scraped his back, which he noticed was a bit moist with sweat. He watched his own thoughts starting to fly away and leave space for the pure pleasure awaiting him. He accelerated, delighted by the wet sound of him going inside of her, and she tried to control the strings of voice that slipped out of her by biting her lip. Finally he came, his muscles petrified with pleasure for half a second, and then his manhood was softening and spilling his seed in her. He sighed in trance, and hugged her tight. Her little breasts pressed against his chest, and her body was warm and shaky and exhausted. He felt the euphoria roll away and came back to earth, to meet with her bright smile.

He would have gladly whispered in her ear that he loved her, but he feared now was not the right time.


	2. Chapter 2

Things are settled in Westeros. The army of the Dead is defeated, the South is in good hands, and yet two characters are unhappy and too blind to see they could be happy together.

**I Will Leave At Dawn**

Jaqen roamed the big corridor, his feet light as always, though he needed not to hide. Not anymore. He observed, his sight and ears sharpened to notice every detail.

He entered the quiet Great Hall and looked around. There was nothing to see, expect for the strings of coloured light that passed through the decorated glass windows. The Iron Throne sat there, huge and frowning down upon him. It was the New King's seat now, and it seemed every bit as severe as the King did himself, now that he had lost his Queen. But he could not think about the King now, nor all the remaining lords and ladies who had been in this same place only a few hours prior.

He went down the steep steps underneath the tower of the Red Keep, where he had seen her sneak around sometimes. He entered the dark cave, and closed his eyes to follow his other senses. His training had required him to go blind too, when he was but only a green boy lost in Braavos challenging the authority of the House of Black and White. He used his enhanced hearing, and the tips of his fingers to guide himself. The walls were cold and uneven, and the place smelled of humidity and rot, and he heard some rats chase each other somewhere close. He was guided further by the sharp perfume of iron, spicy with a slight tinge of leather none but familiar.

When he felt the space of the small corridors expand, and heard the echo of a drop of water falling from the ceiling resonate against the walls far enough from him, he opened his eyes.

He almost gasped, but made not a single sound. A dim shine of the daylight that seeped through the small holes in the stone was gliding on black dragon skulls around him, the height of three men. He carefully snaked between them, and he felt watched, their eyes but only empty sockets of bone. Some were smaller, but the one she was standing in front of had teeth the size of heavy swords, and a spear was poking right through it.

Her smell of leather tingled his nostrils, and he got closer, still as silent as a cat gliding in the night. He did not wish to trouble the still flow of her thoughts, and waited until she noticed his presence.

"I got lost here once." Her voice resonated against the stone. "I was chasing cats, for my lesson."

The side of his lips curled up. He imagined her as a little girl again, covered in mud, like the first time he had seen her. Little did he know back then that she would grow to be… the woman she was now. How could he have guessed? And how could he have protected himself from her?

"Syrio Forel," she continued, as if she were speaking to herself. "He was my teacher. He was from Braavos. Did you know him?"

He waited for her to turn her head towards him, but she did not. She kept fixating the dragon, her shoulders relaxed, as if her mind was only partly here.

"Everyone knew Syrio Forel.", he said, not loud. "First sword of the Sealord. Until he left Essos for Westeros."

"It was a mistake." He did not see her gaze drop, but he knew it had. "He got killed here. Because of me, because he was training me." She sighed, and he was sure she thought he did not hear it. "But I avenged him."

"A man remembers." He made his tone ironical on purpose. "Meryn Trant, a brothel, the face of a blonde girl. That mistake cost a girl her eyes."

"It wasn't a mistake." She quickly snapped. "And you would've taken my eyes anyway."

He repressed a smile.

"The real punishment was watching you down the vial of poison.", she continued.

He thought back on that little show he had given her. It had been quite a cruel game to play, but he could not deny the accelerating beat of his heart when he saw her sob on the body she believed was his.

"I have something to ask you," she said after a while, still facing the giant of stone. She rose her left arm, and the leather of her coat squeaked. Between two gloved fingers, she held an ugly piece of iron carved with the sigil of the Faceless Men.

"When you gave me this," her voice was cold and flat, but he knew she willed it to be so. He would have liked to know what she was hiding behind that tone as well, though.

"How did you know I would come back to you?"

"A girl was fierce." _She still is to this day_. "And eager to find her path. A man knew she would understand that in order to find out who Arya Stark was, she had to become someone else first." There was no point in hiding the truth from her. She had never meant to become No One, he had known from the very first look at her. And maybe that was what drew him to her, but now was not the right time to linger on that thought.

"So you decided to train me."

"Yes," he answered, images of their nights in Braavos flashing in his mind, while they played the Game of Faces, stick in his hand, disdain and confusion on her face, until she learnt how to hide it all.

_And now the roles are switched, and __the__ girl is playing with this man_, he thought, remembering that one night they had shared, far up in the north, before the great battle and the new dawn.

She had never come back to him, not after their victory against the Undead, nor after the taking of the south. On the celebration feast night the King had held after taking the capital, he had seen her eager to enjoy life, joyfully eating, smiling and laughing, and he had imagined taking her to a room and show her some further delights. But she had not come back to him, nor shown any sign of affection.

He had examined her face many times, scrutinizing every detail and wondering why. Maybe she had not liked his methods, or his approach to that very special craft of fleshes, but thinking back on that moment they had shared, he had not noticed anything but satisfaction from her part. She had had her pleasure, so why did she not wish to have some more? What did he do wrong? Ah, if only he had not taught her how to rule her face so well.

Maybe she had only wished to experiment, he thought. After all, she had never shown any tenderness towards him, except for that night. And they were no wife and husband, only old friends with mixed sentiments (on his part at least), she had not promised him anything but ephemeral pleasure. That realization made his heart sting a bit, though he did not wish to feel it and hoped he could quickly forget about it.

"Thank you," she said, and those mere words almost took his breath away.

"For training me. I don't know if I'd be here if you had not given me this coin."

They had had this conversation before. Only then, she had not thanked him for what he had done for her, but simply claimed that what was in the past belonged to the past, and that the game was over. And a couple of days after that conversation she had knocked on the door of his room and he had found her in her nightwear asking for his touch. _Damn it_, he should not think back on that night.

"Bur everything's different now. They're all gone. The Baratheons, the Tyrells, the Martells, the Tullys, the Arryns and the Greyjoys, the Lannister… and even the Targaryens now. It's just us, the Starks. "

"The world will heal, lovely girl. And before we know, new houses will rise."

"You're going to leave too, aren't you." Her tone was still flat, but he thought he heard some sadness in it. Or maybe it was just an unconscious wish of his that twisted his hearing into understanding such a thing.

"The other faceless men said you had no business left here, that you must go back to Essos now that it's all over.

"A girl has her pack, she belongs with them," he said, his heart stinging. "And a man is no wolf."

He watched her stand in front of that skull, hoping she would say something, and he thought about that time she was sobbing for him again. But he erased the memory. It was selfish and cruel.

"Right. You're not a wolf."

She left and dissolved in the shadows, her pace sure, without granting him a look.

On this night, he did not know how, but part of him knew she would come again. He expected her to knock late in the night, when the moon was far above the Red Keep and only cats and spirits and the two of them would be awake. She would knock, barely dressed like the last time and use these newly acquired tricks of hers to get what she wanted. He readied himself. He had to refuse her. Maybe he had been No One once, and able to push his feelings aside, but that was no longer the case, and it was no longer her right to treat him so.

But, surprisingly, she did not wait for the dead of the night to come. He heard a knock on his door, and he had barely finished eating his supper.

"Lovely girl.", he said unsurprised nonetheless. He opened the door, reciting the words he was about to tell her in his mind.

"A man should warn you that-" he lost his voice. She was fully dressed in long sleeves of wool and high boots, and a laced leather coat that would probably take years to unlace. She held two long sticks of wood, and something about her face was off. She wore the habitual confidence, but this time it was hiding something, yet he did not have the time to pinpoint what exactly.

"I want to fight. To train, it's been a while."

He looked at her, abashed. When she rose her brow, he was reminded that time had not stopped to let him think.

"A girl will be leaving for Winterfell on the morrow, she should get some rest before-"

"If you won't fight with me I'll find someone else who will."

He frowned, and let her in. To train? Was it another one of her tricks? But if she was counting on taking the upper hand on him during a fight to push him on the bed, he would gladly show her that she was wrong to underestimate him.

"A man will train with you. But why him, if a girl has so many others to pick from?"

"You're the best.", she threw him one wooden stick, which he caught with one hand. "Ad Jon's busy these days."

She spun, and whirled her stick.

"Why does a girl wish to train so late in the night?"

She sighed.

"Do you want to help me, or not?"

He frowned more. What was wrong with her?

"Then don't ask questions.", she finished, before putting herself in fighting stance.

He readied himself too, and before he had tested his balance she was fusing towards him, pointing the stick like a sword towards his chest. He flew his stick through the air and prevented himself a hurtful poke. She spun furiously and swung her stick towards his hip. He stopped it with his own and the wood cackled. She attacked again, taking a step towards him, making him step back. He would have attacked, normally, not just merely defended himself, but something about her was not right so his mind was not fully into the fight. She tried to hit him again, and again, not allowing herself to think between her attempted strikes.

Why was she so aggressive? This looked nothing like a regular training. And-

He took a shot at the back of the shoulder in a miscalculated move. _Fuck-_ he used his stick as leverage and spun it to hit the back of her knees. He stumbled on the table and crushed a glass. He had no time to care. The next second she was flying towards him and tried to hit his arm. He countered and pushed her back by hitting her ribcage. She grunted and crushed against a divan, that made another table stumble and fall, with all the vials and the fruits and the wine on his. She fumed and bared her teeth like a wolf, and flung her stick again in no particular movement. He was pretty sure she just wanted to hit him.

"Arya." he growled, and hit her back for every strike she gave him, only his were training strikes, and hers were… close to the line between training and massacring a life-long enemy. They were both panting from the exercise by then, and from the swirl of darkness that went through their minds. She spun the stick above her head and aimed it at his face, and was too much for him to bear.

"Stop. Arya!" He caught her stick. She tried to fight his strong grip, but he was as steady as a marble statue. She shot him a look boiling with rage.

"What is this madness?"

"What?!" She still tried to take back her stick. "You said you wanted to train!"

"This is not training!" He harshly pulled the stick towards him to make her let go of it. "This is a fight. A girl is mad." He shoved both sticks in a corner of the room. Usually he would have cared about not making a sound, but now they had crushed furniture and glass and probably woke half of the castle and he could not care less. "You know what? A man is mad too." He controlled his anger and made it cold and satyric. He took a step towards her and meant to intimidate her, but she stood her ground.

"Am I just a tool to you? A body to fuck and fight with whenever you please?"

She looked at him as if he had insulted her entire family.

"You're No One.", her lip trembled.

He inhaled and raised his chin.

"I told you I was done playing this game."

"Why are you leaving with them, then?" Her eyes watered, and he lost the control over his own face.

"You think I don't care about you, but you're the one leaving."

She lowered her head, and he knew she was angered by the unfallen tears. She swallowed them away angrily.

"I have no other choice, a girl knows it." He examined her face, and he knew she did not believe him.

"What was your plan for tonight? Hit me a couple of times to make your anger go away?", he asked, confused.

"I-…", she stuttered, and regained her composure. Her nose was still wrinkled from anger.

"Tomorrow, I'll ride North. To Winterfell. And you'll set on a boat to go back to Braavos. We'll… never- I wanted to write and end to… this. A proper one, since we haven't talked since…what happened." she motioned between them but kept her eyes low.

He scoffed.

"An end?" He was still mad at her, but then smirked. She did have a keen sense of poetry, when one thought about it.

"What a glorious end, then." He looked around, at the mess in the room. _We should have talked, _he thought.

"It sums it up quite well if you ask me.", she answered._ I should have told you._

He smiled, and picked up the sticks again.

"Well, let's not end on an unfinished job. Someone has to win this fight." He tossed the stick towards her again. She smiled and brandished hers. _I love you._

He spun again, dodged again, whirled and hit the side of her ankle to make her stumble. The fire in her revived, and she pivoted on her foot to prepare for her attack. He dodged the strike, but instead of stepping back, he came close to her this time.

He felt the wind of her heavy breath against him, and she tried another strike but he made her stick clash against his and spare his arm. She tried to manoeuvre but with him this close it was way more complicated. She used her knee to push him and escape his figure, but he was quick to pick up her strategy and ended up blocking her in a corner of the room.

She blocked him with her stick and shoved it against his frame, but he noticed how soft her arms were compared to mere minutes before. He did not move an inch. He put his stick behind her right knee and in front of her left ankle for her to be unable to move, but he did not attack her. She grunted when she noticed she was stuck, and he connected their lips.

He felt her melt into the kiss. If he wanted to be true to himself, he may admit that he felt his knees go weak for half a second. _Soft_. She had soft lips. How could he forget?

He broke their embrace and set her free, and she whirled around him again, quick as a snake. He countered a blow on his cheekbone, why did she always aim at his face, did she not like it? He blocked her arm by circling it with his hand, but instead of letting it go immediately, he allowed his hand to glide on a few inches before totally letting go of her.

He noticed her repressing a smile at his faint caress, and she tried to do the trick he had done to her with the stick between the legs to prevent him from moving. He allowed her to, he had a plan in mind.

She positioned her stick the first chance he saw, and instead of letting her cripple him, he squeezed his thighs. Her hands let go of the stick as he expected, and he used his to make her stumble and fall.

His plan would have worked, if she had not anticipated and used a table to give her leverage to spring on him and put him on the ground. _Clever girl._

He fell down, and she was straddling him, using his own stick to push down his throat and make him grunt.

"I won," she said, the look on her face high and mighty.

He responded to her arrogant smile, and watched her dark hair make a curtain around her face.

"You won.", he answered, smirk on his face. But she hadn't. No really.

He felt her arms grow weak, and watched that beautiful face descend towards his. His hands travelled to the sides of her thighs, his touch light.

Her mouth closed onto his, and an uncontrolled moan flew out of her, passing off as a sigh. He closed his eyes to feel more, and felt the sharp pain of a bite on his lower lip.

She stood up and lazily looked around the room. There were broken vials and crushed furniture. He stood up too and she looked at him then.

"Why didn't you come talk to me sooner?", he asked. She kept her eyes low, analysing his form.

"I didn't want to…" She bit her lower lip, the same way she always did when she was troubled. "The dead were rushing upon us, and then we had to take the south, and then… we'd be separated, I didn't want to get attached because I knew I'd only be more difficult."

He sat on the edge of the bed.

"But now I'm realizing staying away only made me crazier, and I was angry at you for being… you, but I just couldn't see that I was stupid."

His heart beat faster.

"Arya, I l-" she rushed towards him and swallowed his words in a kiss. Then she pinched her lips and squeezed her eyes shut, and he knew she was battling against a sadness.

"Please, don't say anything. I'm sorry." Her hand glided through his long hair. "I'm sorry I wasted your time, your energy, or if you ever thought you didn't matter to me, I-"

He hushed her in a kiss too.

"Shh, lovely girl." The endearment made her smile. He circled his arms around her waist and made her sit on his lap. "It's all forgotten."

She kissed him again, with more hunger this time, snaked her tongue between his lips her fingers got lost in his hair and when she drew back her lips were red and her breath was uneven.

He started undoing the laces of her unbearably covering coat. She tugged at his shirt, but he wanted to undress her first. He pulled and toyed with the strings, and he felt her shake in excitement. He had missed feeling her so close to him. His fingers worked through the top, descending one inch after the other, revealing the pale skin underneath.

"Oh, seven hells!", she growled when he still was not finished after a few minutes. She snaked her long fingers between his to accelerate the work, but he chased her hands away. He slid the coat off her shoulders as far as it went with the laces still tight at the bottom, and uncovered her right breast. He suckled on her nipple and kept working until the darn thing finally hit the ground.

He let her get rid of his shirt as well, and then proceeded to undress the rest of her. He remembered every inch of her he had loved the first time, yet under the light of the southern moon and the warm candles her body seemed new. He noticed new scars in some places, especially that long one on the left side of her ribcage. He traced it gently, marvelling at how close the blade had come to her heart.

"Who did this?", he murmured while she was sliding his pants down.

"A White Walker.", she answered casually. "My dagger found him next."

He looked into her grey eyes again, and did nothing to hide the worry that twisted inside him. Of course he knew everyone almost died in the last few months. But she… that blade so close to her heart… he had almost lost her forever, and he almost never knew. He crushed her under his weight and kissed her deep. Her hands drew his back, and he wondered at how much he had missed the sound of their skins gliding against one another.

He drew a path with his lips from her throat to the tip of her breast, just faintly touching and enjoying the shivers that gently shook her every time he went just a little bit further down. By the time he reached the crown of hairs that led to that warm and sweet place, her moans were thick with desire and excitement.

He lapped between her folds, and circled that spot that made her jolt. A finger found it's way in her, and oh- he had forgotten that a woman's body was so deliciously perfectly tight. Or was it just hers? He did remember any other woman's body right now. He felt his manhood grow and slid in and out of her, adding a second finger once she was wet enough. Before long she was holding onto the sheets and grinding her hips against his mouth, riding off a climax.

* * *

She felt the waves in her crash more gently, and worked on regaining her breath. She had completely forgotten how good it felt. He shot her a gaze from down there, full of arrogance and satisfaction and _damn_, that bastard knew how good he was. He released her core, still pulsing from the aftershocks, and came back up to meet with her lips. She was a bit surprised at first, and then let her tongue mingled with his. There was that sweet kind of summer berry taste on it, her taste, and the thought that he had been relishing that between her legs made her giggle.

She circled his broad shoulders. She loved how strong they were, how they made his entire frame look more imposing, and how they pinned her down onto the bed and made her feel so safe. Her hands glided to his chiselled waist and she could feel the muscles contract and release underneath his warm skin of gold. She felt the strands of blood-red hair tickle the sides of her face and brought her hands back to it, looking for that one white lock.

Part of her wanted to take her time, to enjoy softly every drop of time they still had, and the other wanted to explore as much as possible, to do all the things they'd never be able to do again, and she could not find a middle ground. She alternated between wolfing him down and touching him ever so slightly, as if to infuse his skin with her smell, her taste, her own skin, herself. _Please don't forget me_, the thought kicked in as he slid his arms under her waist and fell to his side. He turned her so that her back was against him, and started to toy with her breasts from behind. It was a lovely view, his hands on her body, just his hands and his magic touch. Hells, how could he be so brutal in fighting yet so delicate in lovemaking?

He kissed her shoulder, and she felt his breath against her cheek. He lifted her leg, and she felt him hard against her entrance. He slid in, and she blushed at how wet she was. He began rolling his hips against hers, and it looked like a dance. Not the dance of the ladies and the lords during feasts, nor a water dance, but something in between the delicacy of one and the explosiveness of the other, and all in all just much more enjoyable than both combined. She thought she loved sword-fighting but _this_, oh, this was on a whole new level of love. It was need, a carnal and animal need and yet so profound and intricate, so… _them_.

He grazed his teeth on the side of her neck, and she placed her hands over his to guide one of them to that soft spot that made lights flash in her head. He laughed, a quiet and low laugh that said _a girl is hungry_ probably or so she imagined, and she felt a fuzzy feeling build up in her lower body. She started feeling hot, and the sound their bodies made was just too much for her mind to stay sane.

She remembered Sansa's advice about making them wait, and why she thought about her sister right now by all the Gods she did not know, but this feeling felt way too good to be troubled by anything and she did her best to hold it. It kept building, and each time he went back in her it felt like she was breaking through invisible walls.

She bit her lip and curled her toes and squeezed her abdomen, and in the midst of her frenzy an_ Oh Jaqen_ escaped her.

He did like to hear his name for someone who claimed he had so many. She heard him moan, not really a moan but a guttural sound of satisfaction rather, and that was all to push her off the cliff and into the bliss she had so desperately been keeping away.

She came and her back uncontrollably arched, her brows twisted in that delicious distress. He chased his own orgasm for a couple more minutes, and squeezed her tight when he reached it. She felt that hot liquid jerk in her and relaxed in his arms, her breath still shaky.

They stayed there for some time, enjoying the weight of their bodies making them sink in the feather pillows, and the feeling of their skins still brushing against one another. They were perfectly the same temperature, as if they had both reached the point where they could melt into each other. When her thoughts were calm again she turned around and put her hand on the side of his jaw. She closed her eyes, and let her fingers wander on his face, tracing his features delicately. She had forgotten so many faces before… and his, she could not allow herself to forget his, so she drew the high of his cheekbone, and travelled all the way to his brow, and she knew that there, close to the bridge of his nose there was a scar. The curve of his lower lip, she traced next, and concentrated hard on associating it with the feeling of kissing it. A couple of seconds later, she realised he was smiling.

"We will meet again, lovely girl." He kissed her. "I promise."

On the morrow, Arya rode back to Winterfell, and Jaqen followed his faceless brothers on a ship.


End file.
